Chapter Thirteen The Second Lesson
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE SECOND LESSON
“M Y CHAMPIONS !” M ASTER Dothilos crossed the threshold of the armory with arms spread wide. “A marvelous show, one of the more thrilling performances of late. Here’s your well-earned jackpot—and the ledger, too.”
Needing something to occupy her mind, to erase the memory of the smear of pink flesh and the bloodied white horn now resting in her pocket, Lythlet wrangled with the ledger, flipping through the pages.
The way the odds had been stacked, there had been an equal number bidding against them as there had been for.
She returned the ledger, confident that the numbers made sense.
“I imagine you’ve been keeping track,” Master Dothilos said, “but this is more than double what you made the last round. You’re drawing more bullish spectators at a rate simply uncommon for third-rounders, and you’re keeping them on your side.
After your performance today, I wouldn’t be surprised if the number spikes even higher next month. ”
“We might fill up more than half the seats,” she said, a thrill of victory sweeping through her.
Master Dothilos smiled. “You’ve answered my question before I even asked it.
I’m glad you’ll be accepting my next invitation.
The two of you are exactly what I’ve been looking for: a pair worth marketing.
I’ve commissioned handbills to advertise your matches, so your extended presence will be required one of these days for the inkmaster to capture your likeness.
And,” he added with an eager glint in his eyes, “I’ve already devised a name for your duo. ”
“A name?”
“I only bother investing the effort into pairs I foresee a bright future for. I remain proud to this day of the Poet and the Ruffian—those boys got a fair share of fame for their names alone. Spectators would cheer at the mere mention of it.”
“Well, what is it?” she asked, curious.
“The Rose and the Thorn,” he said, the epithets trickling out of him in dulcet tones.
Lythlet and Desil swapped curious glances at each other as they considered this.
“Who’s who?” asked Desil politely.
“The Rose could be none other than you, that much is obvious to anyone with eyes. The ladies in the stands have been very vocal with their affection for you, as have some rather overenthusiastic men.”
Lythlet rocked her head from side to side. The Thorn , she mouthed. She didn’t mind it, yet it lacked a certain something, though she knew not what.
When she looked up, Master Dothilos was glancing at her thoughtfully. Then he turned to Desil. “Why don’t you go wash up? You’re still covered in sand and, I regret to inform, you reek of sweat.”
With a sheepish expression, Desil left to the washing alcove.
Immediately, Master Dothilos spun on his heels to Lythlet. “May I borrow you for a moment? I thought we might have a wee chat today. Follow me this way. It’s a shortcut to the stands—ah, isn’t it much airier here? The armory was too stuffy for my liking. Have a seat, make yourself comfortable.”
Sitting with her hands folded on her lap, she stared at the arena below.
Master Dothilos’s servants were chopping up the mother bugbear into smaller pieces to carry across the sands, a gruesome and laborious effort that would consume them for hours.
She turned away from the gore and dragged the toe of her dusty, stained boots around in circles on the ground.
“You’ve yet to replace those horrid boots, haven’t you?” commented Master Dothilos wryly, seating himself beside her. “I noticed you slipped on the yutrela because of them. You really ought to use the jackpot to invest in a new pair.”
“I know,” she said. “But I fear I won’t have much coin left after I pay the loan shark next week.”
The match-master looked sympathetic. “You know, if you had told me three months ago that you’d be the one worth keeping my eye on and not Desil, I would’ve laughed in your face.
Truly, what a uniquely clever mind you have.
I assume you borrowed inspiration from the tale of your beloved Atena today, using the yutrela leaf to lull the bugbear into a state of calm.
And then your utterly savage display at the end, ripping the bugbear cub into pieces.
Magnificent, precisely what the spectators needed to see to trust you’ve the brutality needed for these games.
Desil, on the other hand, has been unremarkable.
I’m not saying he doesn’t have his own appeal: the spectators still love him for both his brawling reputation and his good looks.
But not me. There doesn’t seem to be much beneath the surface, and I’m not interested in someone as vapid and witless as him.
You, though—now that’s a story I want to work with.
A genuine underdog without even a pretty smile to fall back on, nothing but her own brains keeping her alive.
Well done, Lythlet, for discovering your conviction.
You’re starting to stand a little taller, a little prouder. ”
She smiled, silently squeezing her knees. Praise was a rare treat for her. “I enjoyed how you framed my story at the beginning.”
He laughed. “Thief! Liar! I ought to thank you for the inspiration. It gave you an angle the spectators could respect. Who doesn’t love the tale of an ambitious underdog, someone defying the odds life has beset them with?
And I barely had to lie to do so! Remember what I told you?
The best stories are those rooted in truth, embellished only for entertainment’s sake. ”
“Is that why you said I stole hundreds of books?”
“Sounds far more impressive than five, doesn’t it?
Not that you had told me the truth then—no need to panic, Lythlet.
I knew you were lying. You’re a cautious creature, and you know better than to be wholly honest with me.
Yes, hundreds of books! Stolen by a little girl whose own parents bleakly named her Candle-Flame, a little thief in the slums desperate for an opportunity to improve her standing in a wicked world.
What a premise you’ve given me to work with.
The spectators loved every morsel of it. ”
She considered then the power of storytelling in the right hands, how Master Dothilos had taken her truth and made it palatable, entertaining, empowering to the masses. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.
His warm smile stretched further, the light reflecting off his hair in golden rays.
“Although I cannot officially be on your side, know that I am not your enemy either. I’m simply someone who wants the honor of working alongside you.
May I ask what happened when it came to slaughtering the bugbear cub? ”
She blinked. The horn stub in her pocket seemed to grow extra jags, digging into her thigh. It hadn’t felt right to drop it back into the bleeding heap of mangled flesh, so she’d taken it, though she had yet to decide what to do with it.
“It seemed like something came over you after it attacked you. You were screaming like a savage as you thrust your spear in and out—a stunning sight that’ll go down in the annals of conquessing, truly—but I daresay you weren’t angry enough at the cub to warrant such a display.”
She fell silent, embarrassed. “I saw a memory then. A bully from schooldays. I saw him there, and one other.”
“What did they do to you?”
She recounted the incident to him, rage resurfacing as she spoke.
She clutched at her knees, bunching the thin, drab fabric of her trousers in her fingers to keep her emotions in check.
“It kept happening for weeks,” she finished quietly.
“That boy would hunt me down every day to taunt me and pull on my hair and my tongue. He even got some of his friends to join a couple of times. Until one day, Desil caught the bully red-handed and chased him away for good. I’d never seen Desil so upset, swinging his fists at that boy to teach him a lesson.
Then he helped me up from the ground, dusted the dirt off my clothes, and asked if I was all right.
I couldn’t answer, of course. But he just held my hand and led me to a seat inside.
We became friends after that, and he refused to let me out of his sight at the schoolhouse.
” She smiled softly at the memory. “He really is a good soul. He holds true to the highest commandment of the Poetics: to love a soul in spite of its vessel .”
“Does he now?” said Master Dothilos with a faint, inscrutable smile. After a brief pause, he asked, “What’s that bully up to now, do you know?”
“Dead, I hope,” she blurted out, and blushed. Desil would’ve scolded her for wishing death on someone; there was most certainly a verse in the Poetics condemning it as uncouth.
But Master Dothilos burst out laughing, delighted. “Well, I hope so, too, for your sake. Very good.”
“Good?” she said, surprised.
“That anger in you is a gift. Use it wisely, and it’ll propel you to new heights.” Master Dothilos hesitated, drawing his lips into a grim line. “Can I share something with you? Something secret.”
She nodded.
He took off his cloak and untucked his dress shirt from his breeches. He clutched the hem in his fist and lifted it, revealing a pale palette of scars splattered across his torso in brutal lines.
She stared incredulously at the lacework of old lacerations.
He spoke, “Our stories run parallel to one another— thief, liar, beaten, bruised! You’re not the only one who’s been savaged by the world.” He tapped her forehead, where the scar Master Winaro had given her remained.
“Who did that to you?” she asked.
He fell silent. “A very bad man,” he said at last.
She looked at him with pity. “I’m sorry. Did he give you that burn on your arm as well?”